


Sworn To The Damned

by BasketCase182



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Asshole!Gerard, Catholic Guilt, Eventual Smut, F/M, Frank does death photography because he’s a gothic bitch, Frerard, Gerard is just an edgy bastard, Homophobia, I’m bad at tags, I’m going to hell, M/M, MCR, My Chem, OG character, Religious!Frank, Slow Updates, Victorian era, general bigotry, smut towards the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasketCase182/pseuds/BasketCase182
Summary: Victorian auGerard is a distraught artist while Frank is a death photographerSet in London, 1872.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Frank Iero/Ray Toro
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. Prologue

The grey clouds hung heavy above the 5 story house, never once letting up. The outside air stunk of waste due to the poor hygiene practices on the streets of London. The oil lit street lamps burned a bright orange halo, contrasting the grey night skies. The cobblestone streets were quiet during these hours, or at least in this neighborhood. Across the city in the cramped overrun poverty, prostitutes and pub goers roamed about, wild and unruly. On upper class streets such as the one Gerard's family took residence on there was a blanket of silence during these hours. 

Gerard himself was watching the quiet through the oval window in the attic space he had turned into his makeshift art studio. The unhappy practicing doctor kept his easels, brushes and paints hidden away from all company in his small blissful escape. Gerard's previous works hung on the stone walls, untouched by the vibrant wallpapers his wife insisted on using throughout their home. His wife, Margret had fallen fast asleep long ago, in their always half empty bed. She hadn't realized her husband had set up a small cot for himself in that god forsaken studio. 

Margret was convinced he never slept. At times she conspired, believing she had married a vampire or a possessed shell of a human. There were many times she had been close to calling a priest or a guard. She never went through with it, in fear she'd be accused of female hysteria, or worse yet: insanity. 

Gerard watched carefully through the slightly dirty window, as though on look out for the Holy Ghost. He willed away the thought of Him taking away his first born. Loribeth was only seven. Sometimes he believed she was the only thing he held dear anymore. The fear of her being snatched away was enough to keep Gerard praying on Sundays. 

The man of the hour let his chin drop, his gaze lowering to his neatly folded hands. He felt his face twitch slightly. Gerard's insides begged him to cry out for help. He allowed himself to lean forward in his wooden seat, pulling a groan from the attention-grabbing floorboard beneath him. The noise caused the figure to freeze. Silence ensued with no fuss. Gerard relaxed, slightly. As much as he could anyways. One sound could alert the rest of the household to his current whereabouts.  
The gold hued rays hitting the glass were what caught his attention. His neck strained, his body staying hunched while he felt an angel lift his chin with a gentle touch. His eyes caught the attention of the sun, who shined brightly in return. Despite his wife's superstition, his pale skin did not ignite into flames at the caress of it's warmth. If anything, he felt a cool relief flood his being. 

Gerard's mind quieted just enough to hear the last sweet whisper of quiet.  
And then the day began.

It started with the cry of young Eleanor, always distraught with her 9 months worth of life. If Gerard listened carefully, he could hear the sound of cheap bed springs groaning as Abigale, the servant girl, went to check up on the babe.  
The creaking of the floors traveled from room to room, until it and the crying stopped.  
The symphony didn't end there, as he could soon hear the practiced soft footsteps of his Margret descending down the staircase. Gerard imagined she would stop at the end to admire her scheeles green wallpaper she demanded for weeks. The desired soft green shade was accompanied by delicate looking white lilies, all in single file lines going diagonally. Her fingers would ghost across the wallpaper, remembering how the neighbors, Mrs. Williams especially, had admired it when they dropped in for tea. The approval alone made Margret smile for weeks, a rare occurrence to say the least. 

It was only when he heard the humming and the clatter of tiny feet running about, did he know that Loribeth was awake. Gerard smiled wistfully, remembering the days he'd play with Lori, or when they'd start singing together. Margret put a stop to it after Mr. Williams made a comment on both Gerard's and Lori's immaturity. 

The humming quieted and the clatter slowed to a respectable pace as Gerard heard the unmistakable tone of his wife's scolding voice.  
He was sure he'd be hearing it soon enough as well.

"Good morning sir. Your tea is on the table." Abigale was helping Margret prepare the breakfast. Eleanor remained out of sight, presumably in her cot. Loribeth sat at the sturdy table, swinging her tiny legs. Gerard sat across from her now, sipping his tea. He liked it strong with lots of milk and sugar. Lori liked it the same, while Margret drank hers weak and with only a drop of milk. 

"How is Eleanor this morning? She was quite fussy last night." Margret looked at Abigale. 

Abigale looked up. "You know, it may have been the lighting but she looks a bit green. Perhaps the poor devil caught a stomach bug."

Margret hummed, preoccupied with the couple slices of ham she was preparing. The conversation fell dull for a few minutes. 

Margret finally decided to acknowledge her husband's presence. "Goodness, my lord. You look like you haven't slept in ages. Where were you last night?"  
Each morning Gerard heard a different variation of the question. He was almost sure Margret thought he was cheating at this point. 

"I am fine dear, do not fret. I simply stayed up reading again."

Abigale kept her eyes trained on the stove where the bacon cooked, knowing better than to interfere with affairs. Margret was busying herself with getting the ham onto a separate plate. The scones were already served fresh. Gerard took the liberty of grabbing one. They were his favorite, black current. 

"I'll be needed soon down in the hospital, you know." Gerard reminded his wife. 

She glanced at the grand father clock in the corner, one of the many she demanded for the house.  
"Yes, I suppose so." Her tone was dismissive, masking a great disappointment. 

Eleanor's crying started up again, the screams bouncing off the green walls that Gerard couldn't stand. 

"I'll get her-" Abigale began but Gerard was already cutting her off, going to see the babe himself. 

He walked the many stair cases up to the fourth floor where the bedrooms were. The nursery was to the right, the door painted by Gerard himself, decorated with rabbits and flowers in bright oil hues. The bassinet sat center, the source of the distress made obvious.  
Gerard had expected to peak past the lace adornments and see his as per usual cranky child, but was instead met with an alarmingly sick looking Eleanor.  
Her skin peeled slightly, and in parts looked an off putting green. The whites of her eyes looked sick and glazed. She looked half dead. Her screams never let up.  
Gerard stood motionless, terrified. He looked around for some sort of cause. Eleanor was allowed to roam about the nursery when Abigale or Margret were there to supervise, though she tended to stay in one corner with her teddy. Gerard looked to that corner, seeing slobber coating the scheeles green wallpaper. His eyes widened, looking from the corner to his dying daughter. He had seen a case like this only last week. A young woman came in, the whites of her eyes turned green, saying she could only seen the one grassy color. She was dead after two hours of vomiting green. The doctors were never able to determine the cause.  
Now Gerard stood watching his kid wither away into a green corpse in the same fashion. 

"Margret!" He called, his eyes never leaving tiny Eleanor. He felt frozen. He knew her faith had already been sealed. 

His wife burst through the door, Abigale in tow.  
"What's wrong-" Margret caught site of her daughter and gasped. 

Just then, Eleanor began sputtering up a watery green liquid, her frail body wracking with sobs. 

"Gerard! Do something! You're the doctor!"

"There's not much I can do." Gerard gritted grimly. He folded his hands, which were previously shaking at his side. 

Margret began crying softly, turning away from the awful sight while still remaining in the doorway. Abigale stepped toward the bassinet on the opposite side of Gerard, smoothing down Eleanor's hair to try to calm her. The girl, only of the age of 16, turned to Gerard. "Would it be ok to pick her up? I-I'd like to try to comfort her as best as I can."

"I can't say if its contagious or not. We had better quarantine the room. Margret? Keep Loribeth away and out of the house. Abigale, run over to the hospital and tell them I can't come in."

Margret nodded sorrowfully, while Abigale meekly replied, "Yes sir."

Once the door was shut, Gerard turned to Eleanor who looked to be getting worse by the minute. He leaned over her, running a hand over her plump cheeks, which were once a rosy red. Now she was pale and ghostly. Her eyes looked hallowed out. Her skin looked to be rotting. The crying let up a bit at the contact.  
Gerard felt the tears forming in his eyes. A teddy bear on the white dresser caught his attention. The fur was white and it had a big red bow around its neck. Gerard was told by Abigale it was Eleanor's favorite. He reached for it, and left it lying down next to the distraught child. It seemed to give her some comfort. It provided Gerard with little, however. 

He knew he'd have to leave soon, that it wasn't safe for him. He blew her a kiss. He almost thought she smiled, but instead her eyes closed and the crying ceased. Silence ensued, and just like that the day was over.


	2. Beginnings

The Iero's were known for their generational musical talent, however Frank was decidedly the exception. Although his father was an incredible street musician, prospering with the accordion and his voice, the woman he married had a disdain for bohemian businesses. Frank's mother had pushed him away from his love of fiddle at a young age, insisting he focus on making a respectable living. 

Frank's maternal uncle owned a photography studio. His mother, upon hearing about the opening of this new business, pulled Frank out of his factory job. Despite his original derision towards the thought of himself photographing people and making a living off it, Frank found himself to be a natural at the very career he had originally mocked. 

His father was against it from the start, arguing Frank should be pursuing a true art form and making use of his musical talents. Frank wasn't sure if he himself would view photography as an art. For many people, it wasn't, but Frank's mother could live with that. Frank wouldn't say his mother was stingy, however his family was poor and having enough money just to get by was a daily struggle. 

There were different types of photography that the studio catered to. There were portraits and landscapes which were especially popular with the upper and upper middle classes. Then there was what was referred to as post mortem photography, which was taken after someone had passed. The family would dress the corpse up and prop the eyes open and pose them as though still alive. These types of photos were taken in the family home of the deceased, so photographers would leave the studios to take these photos.  
Frank, the youngest of the employees at a mere twenty five, was often sent to take post mortem portraits. The stench wasn't an issue for him, being that the streets he walked on a day to day basis stunk of sewage. If anything, Frank took pride in the fact that his post mortem photos often came out looking as though the corpse could stand up and begin doing the polka.  
The only con was having to deal with the grieving families, who often posed with the corpse in the photos. The women of the household were often concerned with the young looking their best and sitting still, and the lords of the house looked bothered as a default. Sometimes they would question his age, his professionalism and the prices. 

Frank walked through the same squalor streets he always did, meeting fellow workers and lower class lads, bicycles, and dodging horse drawn carriages with important people yelling at him to move it. It felt as though they were coming at different angles all at once.  
Frank noticed a woman with tangled hair and bruises on her face sitting at a corner. He passed her a small smile, wishing he had more than that to give her. Frank hated the blatant hatred of the poor that was such a motif in the country. Being considered lower class himself, he made sure to do what he could for the people he sympathized with. 

Frank pushed open the heavy doors to the studio. The floors were made of wooden planks, that were old and sure to give one splinters should they walk around bare foot. The walls were covered in grey wallpaper, plain so not to take away from the photos displayed on the walls. The entrance room was small, the only pieces of furniture being a desk with two accompanying chairs and a coat rack. The important part of the building was what lay behind the door behind the desk. Back there was a cozy set up for portraits done in the studio. 

However, Frank remained in the doorway of the building, next to the lonesome coat holder. Ray, sat behind the front desk. As per usual, his nose was in a book, the latest from Dickens. Frank could read alright, but not to the extent he longed for. His education was cut short by his mother who needed another working man in the house. On top of that, Frank never had the time left to read. All he did anymore was work, sleep and go to church. 

"Good morning, Frank." Ray said eventually, still not looking up. 

Frank nodded, "It's a morning, alright." Frank hung up his coat on the rack. Ray eventually put down his book, marking where he left off by folding the page. Frank watched him do this carefully, noting how his fingers made careful work of the delicate page. Frank had aways wished he'd use a proper bookmark instead of creasing the crisp paper. Regardless, his eyes never left his hands. 

Ray spoke suddenly, catching Frank off guard. "Say, when are you gonna start taking my book suggestions instead of just staring longingly at me while I read? I could use a pal to talk about them with."  
Ray's choice of words caused Frank to redden, "staring longingly" repeating itself in Frank's mind. Ray had been Frank's friend since their early teenage years. Frank had always felt an odd need to be close to Ray. He never approved of any of Ray's relationships with women. Frank had never felt this way about anyone before meeting Ray. Frank had never been able to put a proper label on it, other than a brotherly love, though he knew it wasn't that. No one stares longingly at their brother. Frank knew that's how men should look at their wives, or how young boys blush and look on at their crushes, who were skipping around in their sweet colored dresses. But Frank and Ray were both men, and Frank was painfully aware of it.  
"Are you ok, Frank? You look terribly flush."

Frank blinked a few times, willing away the thoughts that had occupied his teenage mind many a nights. "Fine, its just the sweltering temperatures in here. Would you mind if I opened a window?"

"I'd rather not, the smells going to get in. Did you ever think of taking off that scarf and hat?"

Frank laughed nervously. He removed his scarf and hat, just as Ray had sarcastically instructed. "Well, has my uncle come yet?"

"Yes, he was in early to grab equipment and then was off to fulfill several commissions from the Appleton family about two hours in a carriage north of London. He won't return until closing time. Until then, Henry and Ryan were granted the day off, I'm to run the studio and you were assigned a post mortem shoot near Saint James. He left you the address and the information in this file." Ray passed him a thin file with a piece of paper inside detailing the name the appointment was under, the address of the home, the equipment needed and the prices. 

Frank closed the file, picking it up. "I assume this means I'm to put my coat, hat and scarf back on."  
Frank opened the closet near the corner, taking out his camera and everything else he'd need along with the proper bag to carry it in, which he could secure around his shoulders. 

Ray had already picked his book back up. "I'll see you when you're done, Frank. Maybe we'll have time to grab a sandwich after."

"Sure thing." Frank said, putting on his coat, his hat and the scarf his grandmother had knitted him. The file was held with a tight grip, as not to be lost in the busy streets of London. "Until then."

Frank grabbed his uncle's bicycle from around the back alley of the building, knowing he wouldn't have brought it on his carriage ride. The highwheeler was chained up, but Frank had a key. He opened the straw weaved basket, placing the file inside, and tying it shut with the leather attached.  
Frank loved his uncle's bicycle, forever impressed by the speed, structure and overall practicality of it. The large front wheel, taller than Frank himself, allowed for large distances to be traveled. The speed of the highwheeler was something remarkable, but also something that constantly worried his mother. The basket was large enough for everyday items to be carried. All that aside, Frank loved the bright yellow coat of paint his uncle had chosen.  
Frank's uncle knew his nephew loved the bike. "Maybe when I'm dead." He would say every time he caught Frank sneaking glances at it, however he was lenient about letting Frank borrow it. 

Frank was headed for Saint James. Frank barely knew the area, but knew it was one of the home of the snobbiest socialites of London and was not looking forward to the interactions sure to follow the photo shoot. He wished he'd been given a warning so he could have at least dressed up for it. 

Frank arrived at a street with tall houses very close to one another. He eventually reached the correct number house, 130. He pulled his bike onto the sidewalk, let himself through the gait, closing it behind him. He parked up the highwheeler against the inside of the metal fence, taking out the file. 

He knocked on the tall intricately carved door. A stern looking woman with black hair and black mourning clothes answered. Her dress was over the top in every way possible. "You must be Mr. Iero. I'm Mrs. Way, but do call me Margret." Her voice sounded tired but trying, though her Belfast accent was most prominent. 

"I'm charmed, truly and deeply sorry for your loss." Frank sounded genuine, but over the year he'd been at this, had grown used to mourning mothers. He stood awkwardly on the porch another moment before he was properly invited in. 

Margret had taken his coat, scarf and hat and had hung them up in their coat room.  
"Do tell me, Mr. Iero, how old are you?" Margret had asked once she returned to Frank, as they were now in the grand living room.

"I'm twenty five, ma'am. But please, call me Frank."

Margret looked taken aback. "Oh really? You could have told me you were merely seventeen and I'd be fooled."

"I suppose I do look a tad young for such a serious job. So, er, where is your husband? I need to discuss payment before we begin the photo shoot."

"Oh, I'll bring you up to his study right now. He's a doctor, you know. A surgeon, even."

Frank couldn't stand wealthy people. He now truly wished he'd listened to his grandmother and had eaten his apples once a day. 

Margret led them up a staircase to a heavy shut door with beautiful designs painted on. She knocked before hearing a disgruntled, "Come in."  
The lady opened the door, revealing a man hunched over his desk in thought. His hair was a stringy brown, cut to look clean and young, though his eyes looked as though they'd seen a thousand sunsets. He looked up to meet Frank's curious gaze. The first thing Frank noticed was the man's effeminate features. His expressions were soft, his eyebrows clean and his lashes long. His lips were full and a soft pink, while his cheekbones were high and prominent. Though he was unmistakably male, the feminine features the man bore shone through harmoniously.  
He was dressed in all black, much like his wife, wearing a black button up and black velvet vest, black pants and leather shoes. He looked pale with grief. 

"This is my husband, Gerard. Gerard, dearest, this is the photographer. We need to discuss payments." Margret broke the second of silence. 

"Oh, right of course. Come here then sir, what shall I call you?" Gerard still looked quite dazed. Frank recognized his accent as American and was slightly taken aback. 

However, Frank stepped over across the room, sitting in the chair across from Gerard. "You can call me Frank, if you like it. If not, Mr. Iero is fine too." 

"Alright then Frank, what do I owe you?" Just then Margret stepped out of the room, mentioning something about biscuits. 

"£6 is all sir."

"Well, alright. I suppose thats fine, should I pay you now?"

"If its ok with you, sir." Frank bit the inside of his mouth. "By the way, I must say, I noticed your accent. What part of America are you from?"

Gerard let out a small, barely noticeable smile. "Oh, right. Well, New Jersey originally, but for many years I lived in Maine painting landscapes."

"What made you decide to move to England, of all places?" Frank asked, staring at Gerard's face as he talked. Gerard kept his eyes trained on the desk. Frank figured he was sad over the death, and suddenly felt bad for asking questions. 

"Well, my wife actually. She's from Northern Ireland originally, but we met while she was visiting her cousin for a summer in Maine. We were only sixteen, so when she had to return home to her family we continued writing letters until we were eighteen and I had finally raised enough money to pay for her voyage back to the states. We married, and had Loribeth in the states. After medical school, my wife decided it was best to go to England to pursue a finer life for Loribeth here, so we made the move." Though his words were easy and light, his tone was tired and regretful. 

Frank was unsure of how to respond, but was saved by Margret reentering the room with a tray of tea and biscuits. "Sorry to interrupt, I just figured myself and Abigale might fix our guest something to eat."

"Oh, thank you so much ma'am. You didn't have to, honest but thank you so much."

"It's no bother at all, Frank. Gerard, dear, are we ready? Loribeth is getting antsy and I'm unsure of how long I can keep her happy in her mourning attire."

"Absolutely darling, just let me pay this man. Take Loribeth down to, erm, where Eleanor is set."

Upon hearing the name, Margret's entire composure changed. "Yes, my lord." Was the meek response. 

Gerard had handed over the due payments. 

Frank spoke before his mind had the chance to warn him. "If you don't mind me asking, how long has it been since...?"

"Eleanor died a week ago from this morning." The tone was emotionless, and if anything, aggressive. 

"Right, sorry." Frank was worried he'd upset Gerard, but all seemed ok but a moment later when Gerard was leading him back down the stairs past the patterned green wallpaper with many photos and paintings framed and down to a different, slightly smaller living room than the one he had been in. In a corner, was an already set up chair propped in front of an expensive looking curtain.  
A small babe laid in a cot on the other side of the room, motionless. The cot was surrounded by a now teary eyed Margret, a small girl whom he could only assume was Loribeth, and a few servants. Everyone dressed in black.

"Are we ready?" Gerard said. Something about how commanding the voice was sent a shiver down Frank's spine, though it was possibly just a draft in the room. 

"Yes, dear. Come now, Loribeth. You'll only have to pose for a few minutes this time."  
Margret picked up the unrelenting corpse of Eleanor, cradling her like she had when the baby was alive. She sat in the chair, making sure Eleanor's face was visible. Gerard stood behind the chair, a hand on his wife's shoulder. Loribeth stood beside her mother's chair.  
Somehow, through all the pain and sorrows that came with losing a child, the family managed to appear content and becoming in the photo. 

"Thank you again, Frank. It truly is appreciated, have a wonderful day." Margret bid Frank goodbye at their front porch. Frank had his coat, hat and scarf back on, and was hopping back onto his bike. 

"Thank you, Margret. Have a wonderful day, yourself."  
Though he addressed Margret, all Frank could think about was the man he knew so little about who was now presumably sitting back up in his study. Perhaps he'd smoke, read a book and then turn in for the night with his sweet wife. But the emptiness in their pet names and gazes told Frank otherwise.


	3. Guilt In The Fine Print

The wooden chairs that Frank's parents sat on were visibly a quick job, a few potential splinters rising from the legs. Mrs. Iero had her worn hands folded neatly together while her husband crossed his arms and leaned back. Across the table sat Frank, refusing to give in and look at his parents. It was Sunday, an hour before church. 

"Frank, we do wish you'd keep an open mind. We want you to have a family and a wife to take care of you." Mrs. Iero's voice was soft and gentle but her words nagged Frank and made him want to leave. 

"Mother, I do not wish to settle down yet. I am not your daughter, ready to be married off to whoever you please."

"You're not my daughter, but you certainly act like one." Mr. Iero said. The statement seemed like it was meant to be a joke to lighten the mood, but his tone had a certain edge to it that was unmistakable.

Frank had to stop himself from gulping. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm no pansy. I simply don't have time for a family."

The kettle on the stove began to whistle, causing Mrs. Iero to stand up. "You have plenty of time. All you do is work and read and wander about town doing God knows what. It's time for you to grow up." She said, coming back and pouring the three empty cups. 

"I can't even afford a house, how shall I be expected to provide for a wife and kids?"

"You know well that in another few months you'll have plenty coin to buy a townhouse and until then you can court and find a suiting young lady."

"Or we'll find one for you. Do believe me, boy, when I tell you we have a lady in mind." Mr. Iero spoke up after taking a sip of his tea, two drops of sugar and only a drop of milk. The iron in his words put the argument to an end. 

Frank knew he had lost this battle. He drank his tea and ate a spare piece of stale bread before making his way back to the bedroom to change into his Sunday best. 

Mass started 9:00am sharp every Sunday. Saint Marguerite waited for no man. Frank, his parents, his brothers and sisters walked up the cobblestone steps to face the large wooden doors with crosses carved into them.  
A small boy in a slightly ruffled white shirt and overalls with a tweed cap handed out pamphlets. Frank distinctively remembered doing the same job many a morning back in his youth.  
Upon entering the church, a hum of sweet silence rushed over the chatter of those still gathered outside. A few families had already filled up the pews. Frank led his family to the back, taking the 4th to last pew. Before entering, he took a weak bow before sitting. His family followed suit.  
The service proceeded through passionate words of warning and foreshadowing against the angry flames of sin and eternal Hell while believers stared on in complete focus. Frank's gulp was drowned out by the children's choir. The stories of unforgiving beings higher than Frank looking down upon him, through his flesh, blood and bones was enough to force Frank into a blank state of mindless fear and guilt. 

"Show some fellowship." Mrs. Iero elbowed her son. Frank rubbed his shoulder, standing slightly farther from his mother than he had before.  
The service had ended and the mass goers were gathered outside the fearsome doors. The thin black metal bars that made up the gaits surrounding the premises reminded Frank of a pitchfork and demanded his utmost attention over the family friends chatting away to his parents and siblings. Frank wondered how they could talk so easily after having heard what was bound to become of the lot of them, himself included. The only way of coping he could find was to stare across the stone street to the homes that faced God's house. Those windows directed at the tall standing cross, never cowering away left Frank wishing he could be brave.  
If he had the courage to look up, he'd have seen the heavy grey that was the clouds. The first drop hit Mr. Iero on the top of his head. 

"Perhaps we should disperse. The rain will begin to pick up any second now. Do come by for tea, Edmund. I would love for Blanche and Frank to reconnect." Mr. Iero had already picked up Frank's little brother and sister, Jack and Alice, and had them both on his hip, ready to rush them home, as to ensure no dilly dallying.  
The use of Frank's name had pulled him out of his thoughts and alerted him to the oncoming rain. He grabbed his other sister, Agatha by the hand and began gearing them in his parents and other sibling's direction. 

"Very well then, we will drop by at two. Thank you dearly."

The Iero's rushed off through the streets to their home, a small apartment at the very bottom level of their weathered grey brick building. While standing around the door, waiting for Frank's father to budge open the lock with the key, Frank stared off at the busy streets. Everyone was walking in every direction with carriages carrying well-to-dos, not caring about anyone but themselves.  
The door finally flew open with a groan and the family piled inside. Frank's mother was giving out that Mr. Iero had given her no warning that he'd invite over the Appleton's, or anyone for that matter, and now she would have to magically whip up a meal for two families. Jack, Alice and Agatha were sat on the creaky floor that could do with a polishing, playing knights, in which Jack was a knight, Alice was the princess and Agatha was the king. His parents would often laugh off Agatha's role as a comedy but Agatha seemed to take her job as king seriously and Frank had come to respect that. While the younger siblings played on the floor, Frank's two siblings who were closer to his age abandoned the main room to go to one of the two bedrooms in the house.  
Frank sat on the couch, not far from where the kids played. He faced the wall that led to the tiny kitchen, the wall covered in an old wallpaper that was bland in color and busy in pattern. A small wooden cross stared back, causing Frank to lower his gaze slightly out of shame. He could still hear his mother mumbling under her breath about the lack of food and biscuits in the house. His father had settled into the round wooden table they had been at earlier this morning, now smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper. His coat was hung by the door, as was his mother's. 

Frank forced himself to look away from the wall altogether, focusing his eyes on the cat in the corner, curled up and fast asleep. She was his mother's, and often sat on her lap as she sewed and stroked her soft grey and white fur. She never liked Frank, or any of the children really.  
From there, Frank came to look up at the many pictures and drawings adorning the wall. Many were in frames made by the men in Frank's family, for proper frames were expensive. They depicted many distant relatives Frank had only heard stories of, others of Frank's cousins in Italy whom he'd see once every four or five years. Some were of his aunties, who wrote often to his mother. Some were of his little siblings, ones he'd taken himself with the help of Ray in the studio once. Another was of his uncle and his father when they first immigrated to England. And then in the middle of them all were Mr. and Mrs. Iero's wedding photo. The perfect example of man and wife, just as it was taught and just as it should be. 

Frank felt more intimidated than he already had, yet unsure of what had washed over him. He'd felt odd, in a sense, his whole life but never to this extent, especially since this morning's service. However, he decided it was just the weather. 

Marriage was expected of all the Iero children bar Jack, who Mrs. Iero was pushing to become a priest. Frank knew he'd have to be married someday, he just never realized how real it truly was. He supposed having his own bed would be nice if he could move out with a new wife, rather than sleeping on the couch in the very room he sat in. It was sharing the bed that racked his nerves, what he knew was expected of him. His mother had talked about wanting as many grandchildren as Queen Victoria herself. The thought scared Frank, caused a ill feeling to wash over him. Frank sometimes wondered if he needed to visit a doctor, but knew it would do him no good. He refused himself the relief of speaking up about his feelings, knowing everyone would think he'd gone mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a bit short but I hope you lot like it! Trying to keep things historically accurate is hard when you can only really get surface level research off google. I try basing some of the dialogue off movies and books I’ve read based during victorian era but it’s still quite difficult :(
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter though! Sorry it’s short!


	4. Married Life Troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marriage troubles uwu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all, sorry it’s been ages. I’ve had the first half of this chapter in my docs for about 3 months now and it’s been a struggle to find the motivation to write with everything going on. This is slightly under edited, so if I make any errors please lemme know! Thanks, and enjoy!!!

Thoughts of striking green eyes, comparable to those of a feline seemed to haunt Gerard. He had spent the past few days looking to cope by throwing himself into his work. Several patients had been admitted for various ailments. It was quite obvious to Gerard that one of the women was pregnant, however he knew she’d be thrown out if this was made obvious. He did his best to help hide her secret, giving her an extra large gown, and making sure she was comfortable. He knew many of the patients were hiding differing factors that could easily have them kicked out. Gerard often worried for the safety of these patients, those whom he couldn’t protect when he was off shifts.  
Despite this, Gerard knew that was not the only reason he wished to work longer shifts. He was no saint, and deep down he realized that the driving reason he wanted this was to spend less time with Margret. He was no selfless saint, he always had to have some underlying benefit for himself. The guilt ate away at his soul, begging his dear god that he could grow into a man with no goal but the bettering of others. Yet here he was, avoiding his beloved and feeling hunted in his own home.  
He sat perched on a stiff cushioned seat, the frame a dark stained oak with dark green velvet stretching over the inner padding. He refused to allow himself to sit back properly, let his spleen touch the back of the chair. One leg bounced nervously, yet gingerly and with a purposeful quiet. Gerard looked ready to bolt up out of the small seating room should Margret come in through the jade colored archway.  
The Gustavian clock in the corner was a minute ahead of all the other clocks in the house, and painful ticking was beginning to get to the man.  
Gerard wondered if he was being childish. Trying to outwit his own wife, hiding from her as though she were a fox and he was the rabbit began to feel silly the more he thought about it. 

“Gerard, my Lord, please do lend me your ears. I feel a great sense of concern for you. I only wish to help.”  
His spot had been compromised. Margret now stood in the center of the archway, hair done up as always and still in her Sunday best from church earlier. 

“My darling, I assure you that whatever your concerns are, they are likely ill-founded and absurd. However it is that you plan on helping, do note that you will be contributing to the help of no real cause. You are wasting your sweet mortality on worries.” Gerard sat back in the chair, as though to prove he was not afraid. His entire demeanor now switched subconsciously from unnerved and jumpy to irked and unwilling to compromise. His head rested in his palm, and he crossed a foot over his other knee. He knew Margret hated when he refused her a proper posture.

“Gerard, you never used to be this way. When we first met-”

“When we first met, you were not obsessed with such trivial concerns as gossip and reputations.” Gerard snapped, cutting Margret off quick. His eyes entered a fiery debate, finally daring to look into Margret’s own Hell bound eyes. 

“-You were so gentleman-like, always kind and patient. My Gerard would have never cut me off, he always would listen to me.” She continued.

“Well my Margret did not care for what anyone had to say about her or her family.”

Both were bitter now. Any inch of gentle concern had been drained from Margret’s face, her expression now cross, with arching eyebrows angled downwards. “I was shameless, my lord,” she said with a certain sneer, “shameless and young, we’re all a little immoral in our youth. Yet we all must grow up and confess. We all endure adulthood now, all except you.”

“You’re out of line, you know. You shouldn’t talk to me like this.”

This seemed to set something off In the very depths of Margret’s chest. She moved from where she stood in the entryway, now standing directly in front of Gerard. “My friends come around for tea, and they tell me a new story going around the neighborhood each week. That my husband is a dirty cheat, and he has several secret mistresses. Yet here you are, accusing me of being out of line? Yes go on, live your life of sin, but burn me at the stake.” Her voice dripped with venomous irritation and her eyes shone with pure unrivaled anger. 

Gerard was suddenly more aware of how detrimental this argument could be. “Dearest, is this truly about what our neighbors believe? Have their words really planted seeds of doubt so deep that you no longer have trust in my faithfulness? You should have learned by now that no other woman is worth so much as a stare in comparison to my own dear wife.” His lavish language was intentional, knowing Margret would simmer down. 

It clearly had some effect, that being the new relaxed ease filling the air in the room. Margret shoulders slumped slightly from the tensed up stiff position she previously held herself in. She moved to step forward slightly, resting a delicate hand upon her husband’s shoulder, to which Gerard rested his own calloused palm atop hers. Somehow he knew they’d come to a truce. 

“Gerard, you know I care about how I am perceived, how you are perceived, how our family is perceived. But nothing could bring me to believe you would really leave me, or that you would dare to commit adultery. But please do try and understand my embarrassment. Having to defend my husband to my friends and family, having to continuously defend my own decision to marry you is horrible. I simply wish you would allow us to fall into a comfortable lifestyle, with no worries or nerves. Surely, some part of you desires the same.”

“My darling, I desire to desire the same, I strive to bring myself to wish for the same future you do, a domestic life but somehow the idea brings a scowl to my face. I simply can not live a life of calm serenity.”

“Oh, my lord, would you come off it? Just when I begin to believe you are coming around, that we are seeing eye to eye you turn away and refuse to compromise yet again. Maybe my mother was right about you this entire time. Maybe I should have listened to her, and taken Loribeth and Eleanor back to Belfast and lived with her and my brothers.”  
Margret left the room, and Gerard realized that whatever truce he’d been holding out for was a long time away.

Lori sat at the too big table, swinging her legs from the chair. Despite being seven already, she seemed to lack the understanding of death. A whole month since Eleanor was buried and Lori was back to humming to herself while coloring on the spare sheets of paper the servant girls find for her.  
Gerard wished he could be like Lori, ignorant to not only the Grim Reaper but to the stress and tension he has put on the Way household. Gerard moves into the kitchen, taking a seat across from his daughter at the breakfast table. It was well past breakfast and nearly Lori’s bed time. Gerard and Margret now both mutually avoided each other since the argument earlier and Gerard felt void of happiness. 

Lori looked up. “Father, what do trolls look like?”

Gerard wanted to smile. “Why do you ask, might I inquire?”

“You may. I want to draw a troll under a bridge like in the stories the children around the neighborhood talk about. None of them know what they look like. I just knew you would know.”

“Well, my dear, trolls are short with ugly faces, big noses and tiny eyes. Their teeth are jagged, and their feet are laughably large, with rotten toenails.”

“You always know of the strangest creatures, father. Oh, why do you no longer tell me stories before bedtime?”

“You know how your mother feels about joy.” He muttered sarcastically. 

“Gerard Way!” Margret came bursting into the kitchen. Lori looked surprised, if not a little scared. She made a quick grab at her paper and colors before scampering off before her mother could confiscate them.  
“Why must I always be painted as the enemy. We’re meant to be allies, you do know. Yet you’re here, leaving the bad air between us hang and chatting bad about me to Loribeth. I do believe you just hate me. Oh, I should have listened to my dear mother. What was I thinking, sticking by your side?” Her eyes extruded smoke and the fumes nearly gave Gerard a coughing fit. Her arms were crossed, and her dangling pearl earrings jangled slightly as she moved her head with each sentence. 

Gerard remained seated, hoping he looked calm. “Margret, must you continue this?”

“You know well that you refused to even address my fears, much less right your wrongs. Of course I must continue to remind you that unless you change your ways I will take action.”

“What? You’ll run along to Belfast and live with that whorish mother of yours?” Gerard did not mean to say it so crudely, yet it was too far gone to falter now. 

It was when Margret had to blink back angry tears with closed fists at her sides, that Gerard knew he’d touched a nerve. Her teeth bared, like an angry dog intimidating their opponent. “I’ll have no more of your gum. Do not ever speak of my mother like that again or I might just call upon the angel of death herself.”

“Is that a suicide or a murder threat?”

“You’ll simply have to find out, my lord.”  
Gerard didn’t like the way her voice wavered, the slight shake in her left hand that Margret so desperately tried to conceal. Gerard stood suddenly, but it was too late, as Margret was making the move through the archway and across the floor to the coat rack. “I’m-I’m going to visit a friend. I’ll flag down a cab for myself. Expect me back in the morning at the earliest. Don’t kill Loribeth.” 

“What do you mean, you’re meant to-”

“I am leaving Gerard, I’m halfway out the door. Do not expect me back until the morning. Get it through your big thick skull that I do not wish to even look at you right now, much less be in the same house.” Margret had her fur on, her boots all drawn up and had also gotten her hat from the back of a closet in the threshold. “Until tomorrow.” She finished gruffly, pushing past her husband with a new sense of purpose. 

The door slammed and Gerard nearly fell back. He felt a new burst of emotion he couldn’t place, yet so familiar to the touch that Gerard wanted to call it melancholy. But he knew this was a weak label to the pure discontent he felt in that moment. His hands had a slight shake to them, and his lips quivered only slightly. Gerard wished he could bring himself to look away from the door, which sat so at peace that it was as though it were mocking him. 

That old familiar ‘tick tick’ had followed Gerard from room to room, only now beginning to shriek like the banshees he read about in his youth. 

“Daddy? Where did mother go?” Lori was shyly stood by the stair frame as though she’d just emerged from hiding. 

“Out to visit her friends, Lori dear. Not a bother on her. Don’t fret.” 

Lori murmured an ‘okay’ but was clearly not believing a word out of Gerard’s mouth. Her eyes gave her away, a soft brown that reminded the man of his younger brother in the states. Yet no tone or shade could conceal the unfiltered worry swimming in her irises. 

Gerard wanted to change the subject, distract Lori before she let her mind cave in. The last thing he wanted was his daughter to feel anxious about things out of her control. “Lori, you never tell me about your lessons anymore. Tell me how your math and literature is and we can talk over tea.” 

“Oh. Alright.” Her voice was steady but if anything, Loribeth looked confused. 

They sat in the main living room, an area of the house mainly used for entertaining and by Margret when she felt like lounging. The furniture was too stiff for Gerard, and the decor was extremely average for the potential it had with those 2 arching windows that grew from 3 feet off the floor to the ceiling, framed by a cleanly sanded and varnished dark oak. The windows were stained glass, being divided into sections of blue, purple and red. Gerard wished they’d have gone a bit more outlandish when deciding on the color schemes and bits of clutter, rather than just have gone for neutrals with highlights of purple to pick up the windows. 

Now Lori and Gerard sat, teapot and cups on a silver tray, Lori babbling about her distaste for particular arithmetics. She was getting so worked up, Gerard changed the subject to her favorite subject: books.  
“Any good reads lately?”

“Nothing good, just the pamphlets mama leaves around when she’s done with them. She’s discontent with allowing me to read any of your adventure novels. She thinks they’ll over excite me.”

“Rubbish, don’t mind her. In fact,” Gerard stood, walking across the room to the mantle place where a few books were displayed. He grabbed one that was slightly worn, his finger ghosting over it’s spine before grabbing the book. “This is a copy of a book, Little Women. You should be skilled enough to read it, if not then I’ll read it to you.”

“Could we read it together?” 

“Another ingenious idea, pet.”

To put it lightly, Margret didn’t like to see her husband tarnishing their daughter’s mind when she decided to come home after only an hour. Her friend had talked her down, made her see things from Gerard’s perspective but coming back to see him act as though they’re both five irked the woman.  
She had hung her coat and hat up, unlaced her boots and left them aside, realized how late it had become and went up to check on Lori. All to find Gerard reading to Lori about the non-traditional womanhood all their social circles scoffed at. 

“Loribeth, were you not content with the pamphlets I so graciously allow you to borrow?” Though her voice was calm, it was clear she was anything but.

“Margret, she’s so advanced for her age. She’s ready for more difficult materials than your daily advice papers, if one could call them so.”

“One could. Lori, it’s late and far past your bedtime.” She grabbed Gerard by the upper arm, pulling him to his feet from where he sat by her side on the bed. “We all must be getting to bed now.” She blew out the candle before dragging him across the room and through the door. 

“What is the matter with you? I was only reading her to sleep.”

“What’s the matter with me? Gerard I didn’t even realize you had brought a copy of that book over here. 

“Might I remind you that you read this book twice through when it came out only a few years ago. Why is it now that you’ve suddenly decided it’s bad?” Gerard was getting snappy again, yet their voices were hushed as not to wake Lori or any servant. 

“Friends and acquaintances have made the flaws in it’s morality more obvious over the years.” Her voice was meek, and she looked as though she’d been caught out. 

“I can’t believe you let those dim witted hags convince you to hate one of your favorite books.” Gerard felt angry, not just at Margret but at the whole of all of their social circles. “Outta get out of London, I reckon. Cut contact with all these wound up scufflers. Find somewhere quiet out on a plot of land.”

Margret looked horrified. She began to sputter, looking for any excuse she could stutter out to change his mind. “We only just settled into this home, what about your job? What about my friends? What about-”

“Margret, dearest, please. You and I both know this place has changed you.”

“Me changing is the problem? No my lord, it is your refusal to change which is the root of our trouble. The source of the solution is for you to conform.”

Margret saw Gerard’s last strand of empathy leave his body. “What is it that you want from me? What more can I do to conform to this city’s societal norms? You already have a fine house brimming with expensive furniture. You don’t work at all, I go out and work so that we can afford servants to do your work. If you had been mothering her properly, Eleanor would have lived a much longer life.” The ugly words left his mouth faster than they could process in his mind. They settled into a thin silence, just short of unforgivable. 

Margret’s face was unreadable. Gerard couldn’t tell if she was going to hit him, fall to the floor crying or walk away, perhaps a combination. Gerard felt the guilt from the weight of his words that he didn’t truly mean, yet said with such depth that it couldn’t come off any way but truthful. 

The calm in her voice nearly shocked the man, as she carefully recited, as though rehearsed, “I don’t know how you could say that. To blame me? Is this how you truly think? That I am at fault for an incident we both failed to prevent? Mr. Way, you are not the man I love, you aren’t Gerard and you haven’t been for a long while.” She let out a small breath, before muttering, “I knew I should have stayed the night at Marianne’s.” 

A long silence passed between them, before Margret slowly made her way down the hall to the bedroom, with Gerard following behind. They changed into sleep attire in a complete quiet, as though any sound would trigger an explosive chain reaction.  
Once they were both lying in bed, side by side on their backs, the air seemed to lift slightly. They stared up at the ceiling, hands folded over the quilts. Margret moved to sit up and blew out the sole candle they had still lit by her bedside. 

His voice was meek as he spoke, “Margret, my love, you know I didn’t mean it.”

“I know you didn’t.” Her voice was small and careful. 

“How do you suppose we move past this?” Her husband whispered into the dark void, as though not seeing her face made it easier.

“Remember when we talked about having a big family back in the states? With as many kids and grandkids as Queen Victoria herself?”

“What are you proposing, Margret?”

The night carried on, with faceless kisses and familiar caresses. 

The next morning’s air was refreshing, and the mood was light. This raised the eyebrows of the servants of the household, who were used to tense breakfasts with intense interrogation. They did not complain, however, instead doing their duties are instructed by Mrs. Way.  
The madam herself, had gotten done ordering around the servant girls who were now finishing the cooking and beginning the cleaning. Magret finally sat down by Gerard with a full plate, and Loribeth sat just across from the two.  
Conversation was easy, Margret practically melting into her husband's side. 

When Lori left the table to go get ready for her piano lessons, Gerard led Margret to the main living area which happened to be empty. They sat by the window, gazing down at the busy streets below. Gerard was stroking Margret’s hand lovingly, while she leaned her head on his shoulder. 

“Do you think the baby will be here before Christmas?” Margret joked, breaking the comfortable silence. 

Gerard moved away to look at her with a raised eyebrow. “We won’t know if you’re pregnant for awhile.” 

“I know, but if I’m not then we’ll simply try again.” 

Gerard looked as though he had just come out of a trance. Every fiber in his body screamed, not again. He nodded with a soft smile. “Sure thing, my dearest.” 

They went back to staring out the window. The silence was no longer comfortable, and Gerard very well wanted to throw up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, stay safe everyone!! Wear your masks or else! Gonna try and pump out 3 or 4 chapters before school starts again! Love y’all <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, this is a new story I have. I really like the victorian era so I decided to make a victorian era au. I know Frank wasnt mentioned here yet but hes coming next chapter. This was a bit short but its a prologue so go away. Also, you'll notice that all the characters except the members of mcr are not real people. For example, Margret is NOT based on Lynz. There is no affiliation, simply because I dont wanna write about real people dying cause its a bit messed up. If you got here by googling your name dont read any further please, although I doubt Gerard Way is reading this right now anyways.  
> The only warnings I have for this book are major character death, homophobia (this is set in 1872 so like), some racism (187218721872), sexism (again, 1872), cursing, mentions of drinking/smoking etc etc. also probably smut


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